The buoy

The monstrous sun blazed impudently; large dewdrops grew
into fat, glinting puddles on the rocket-carrier’s deck; the
repulsive blueness of the dreamy skyline dropped a sinful
longing into our souls to be finally let out on leave, and our
inflamed imaginations were picturing horrific scenes.

Our dear sub, that submerged “heap of iron” packed with
the latest engineering spasms of Russian genius, the natural
beauty around and the brevity of our cruise, along with the
miraculous organisation of the navy, did not lead to a substantial
alleviation of the desire to get on all fours and bite someone.
The morning coldness woke us, like a bastard, and the
air – soiled with negative ions – seemed as slippery as a jar of
canned meat.

Some plane flew over us, greedily embraced by the sun,
and threw down a few pieces of rubbish. The sub made a turn
so we could lasso the thing and drag it onto the deck.

“Signaller and the head of radio-engineering on deck!”

said the captain. The team rushed below and soon enough, the signaller, and behind him the head of radio-engineering,
nervously climbed up on deck. They both declared that the
lassoed object was a radio-buoy.

“Is it American?” asked the captain.

“Yes, Sir!” they replied, and people gathered around,
curious onlookers with cutting tools who were burning with
the desire to take the enemy to pieces.

The captain nodded, and the curious onlookers started
making a racket, as they surrounded the foreign present. But,
just then, they heard a ticking. It went very quiet.

“What’s that?” asked the captain.

“Comrade captain, it’s better not to open it,” said the
head of radio-engineering, “it’s probably a self-detonator.”
The curious onlookers found that their desire to duff up
the enemy was shrinking to miniscule proportions.

“We could sod the whole thing and get going?”

“Comrade captain, if we don’t open it, we could easily
carry it around for a year.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, we’ll take it to the base and deal with it there.”

“Comrade captain,” the signaller remembered suddenly,
“they have a microphone in it which transmits everything to
the USA.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Then everyone below deck!”

Only the captain held his ground on deck. He waited
until everyone had disappeared, and then bent down to where
he reckoned the microphone must be.

“Can you hear me, you stinking American bastard: burst
your fucking locators! You’ll see how red, peeling stumps
will hang from your bodies from the might of Soviet power!”
And such feverish turns of phrases poured forth that even the
most patient bit of wood would warp under its weight, most
people’s ears would twist into a shell while they themselves
collapsed altogether.

The captain got so carried away, swearing non-stop,
that he knelt down in a daze, using his hands to demon strate,
sticking his fingers into his mouth, champing them and tastily
licking them all over. His face shone with ecstasy the whole
time, with a sort of radiant passion. He was, in a word, alive,
pulsating, existing to the full.

When they brought the buoy to the base, it turned out
that it was one of ours.